He turned back to Zukunft.
Remember the dream. Remember the old man. The man’s scars matched Wichtig’s perfectly. He had not looked like a man carrying a great deal of wealth. In fact, the old man hadn’t looked much like he gave a shite about money at all.
To hells with gods. Even if they did as he asked, they’d try and use him. After all, who couldn’t find use for the World’s Greatest Swordsman?
Wichtig, enjoying the way Zukunft’s blood soaked shirt and skirt clung seductively to her many curves, offered a blood spattered hand. She took it without hesitation.
“I am Wichtig Lügner, the Greatest Swordsman in the World.”
She stared at him, searching. “I believe you.” She laughed, eyes dancing.
“Actually, said Wichtig, “I lied.”
“You’re not the Greatest Swordsman in the World?”
“No. I’m the Greatest Swordsman in the city-states.”
“That is the world,” she said, confused. “The Basamortuan’s don’t have Swordsmen, and there is nothing else.”
“I think there is. I think there is something beyond the mountains.”
“But everyone knows this is all the world. Belief defines reality.”
“What if there are people on the other side of the mountains who know differently?”
Zukunft nodded, looking contemplative. “Imagine what they might believe. Imagine what their reality might be like. What if they think the sky is green or all believe people are basically good?”
If he suspected she was mad before, now he was sure. He decided to let it pass. There’d be plenty chances to make fun of her naivety later. “Would you like to come with me?” The words were out before he realized what he was saying.
Why are you asking her this? You know you walk out of those mountains alone. If she comes, she dies. Or decides to stay with whatever she finds over there.
“Are you like Bedeckt?” she asked. “Can I trust you?”
Wichtig gave her his best cocky grin and knew it was a good one. Maybe his best ever. “That, my dear, would be a terrible mistake.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
If you agree to live by the laws of a city-state, you are a slave to whoever makes and enforces those laws.
If you live by religious commandments, you are a slave to the god and priests of that religion.
If you follow the precepts of a philosophy, you are a slave to that philosophy.
If you live by or allow your life or thoughts to be defined by any precept, rule, law, axiom, dogma, or commandment, you are a slave.
People spew on about how evil slavery is all the while happily enslaving themselves in a half-dozen different directions. Slavery is man’s natural state. And where there are slaves, there must be masters.
—Sklavenhändler, Gefargeist
Morgen watched the scout ride hard, horse pounding across barren hills of rock and mud, back to the Geborene camp. She kept flashing nervous looks over her shoulder, but he saw nothing giving chase. Dragging her mount to a sliding halt, she dismounted before the beast came to a complete stop and knelt before her god. She pressed her forehead to the dirt before his pristine white shoes. Glancing down, Morgen’s eyes were once again dragged to the stain Nacht left on his chest. Why do my people never mention it? Were they afraid? Did they fear what it meant, or did they fear his reaction? Maybe they think it’s intentional. What if his priests thought it was some subtle message, perhaps that perfection was unattainable, even for Morgen?
And then there was his hands. Where previously they were caked in flecks of dried blood, now that red ran fresh, dripping from his fingertips. Everyone pretended not to notice.
“Rise,” he told the scout. “Report.”
She rocked back and rose, eyes averted, still focussed on his shoes. “I found the Gottlos army. They’re dead. All of them.”
Dead? His first thought was Stehlen. “How many?” Morgen asked.
“Between five and seven thousand.”
Surely even Stehlen couldn’t kill that many. But seven thousand dead didn’t send a scout scampering back like that. “There’s more,” he said.
She nodded. “Geisteskranken. Delusions did war. I saw demonic wraiths battling an army of corpses—not the Gottlos dead, different dead. And stones…I…I’ve seen this before.”
Demonic wraiths? The dead? “What about stones?”
“They were moving and screaming and crushing people.”
Erdbehüter. Her control slipped once as she completed the towering wall surrounding Selbsthass. Several huge boulders ran amok, wailing torment and causing terrible devastation. Dozens of priests and labourers died before she once again brought the stones under control. You burned through her sanity too quickly. You broke her. Responsibility weighed on his shoulders, threatened to bend him. I had to. He needed that wall to secure Selbsthass, to keep out the filthy and undesirable. Being a god meant making hard choices. The world was flawed and insane, and if he must make some sacrifices to achieve perfection, then so be it.
Squaring his shoulders, Morgen frowned down at the scout. What the hells was Erdbehüter doing here? He told Konig to send her out of Selbsthass on a make-work project. He was terrified of the damage and mess she’d cause when she finally reached the Pinnacle. Could this be someone else, another Geisteskranken with a similar delusion? It seemed damned unlikely.
“Shitting hells,” he snarled.
The scout’s head snapped up, mouth opening in surprise, before she caught herself and once again stared at his shoes.
Konig hadn’t sent Erdbehüter on some make-work mission, he sent her after Bedeckt, hoping she’d kill the old man. No doubt she had orders to report back to Selbsthass so Konig could kill her and gain control of Erdbehüter and whoever she killed in the Afterdeath. How did he do it? The Theocrat showed no hint of Gefahrgeist power. In fact, aside from being a minor Narcisstic, he showed no power at all. He must be hiding his strength, Morgen decided.
Don’t be a fool, said Nacht, watching from a mirror bright sword held by a nearby soldier.
Morgen sighed and waited for the Reflection to continue.
It doesn’t matter who is where, said Nacht. There is only one man worth fearing. You know who he is.
The real Konig, the man trapped in the mirror. “Failure,” said Morgen.
The scout kneeling at his feet whimpered, assuming he meant her.
It must be such a terrible thing to disappoint your god, said Nacht.
Morgen, lost in thought, ignored him. The walking stones was definitely Erdbehüter. The demonic wraiths? He stifled the urge to swear again. Ungeist, the self-proclaimed Exorcist of the Geborene Damonen. Morgen thought back. I commanded Konig to send three dangerous Geisteskranken priests far from Selbsthass; Erdbehüter, Ungeist, and—
“Shite!”
The scout squeaked, shaking.
“Be silent. Be still,” commanded Morgen, robbing her of all will. She was nothing, a distraction. He needed to think. He trampled her spirit, only nominally aware of what he did. She didn’t move.
Drache, the Therianthrope dragon. Could Failure be so foolish as to send her with Ungeist and Erdbehüter?
Of course he is, said Nacht.
Morgen turned on General Misserfolg. “Tell my Geisteskranken to watch the skies. Drache is here. They are to bring her down.” If they can. “Have them watch for Ungeist and Erdbehüter as well.” Should he bring these Geisteskranken back into the fold, or just have them slain? They’d be useful when it came to invading Gottlos.
I told you, said Nacht, you won’t reach Gottlos.
“I will,” said Morgen, and his Reflection grinned that smug Wichtig grin. “Bring Ungeist and Erdbehüter to me,” he told Misserfolg. “If they resist, kill them.”
General Misserfolg nodded and marched away, back ramrod straight. His uniform was perfect. He was cleaner even than Morgen.
That’s because you’re stained and imperfect, said Nacht. And your hands are cover
ed in blood.
Morgen glanced at his hands, clenching them in tight fists until his knuckles hurt. Since the razing of Unbrauchbar, the blood on his hands dripped from his fingertips in a relentless rain. No matter how much he washed and cleaned and wiped, they were never clean.
That’s guilt, said Nacht.
“Guilt is a flaw,” said Morgen, hating that he parroted Bedeckt’s words.
The scout kneeling before him toppled to the mud. Unwilling to move, she’d held her breath until she lost consciousness. “Idiot,” said Morgen, glaring at her. Why did he have to spell everything out to everyone? Why couldn’t they do what he needed, be perfect?
Remember Erbrechen? asked Nacht.
Morgen showed teeth to his Reflection. “You know I remember.” The Slaver tortured him for hours, broke his body.
He broke more than your body, said Nacht.
“Get to the rutting point.” The gods-damned Reflection never said anything without a reason.
He was always annoyed with his followers, said Nacht. He stole their free will and then was angry when they couldn’t care for themselves.
“General Misserfolg is fine.” Morgen gestured at the scout sprawled at his feet. “Her… I was distracted.”
You made a mistake.
“I hate you so much.”
The scout groaned and rolled onto her back. Her eyes flickered open and catching sight of Morgen she once again froze and held her breath, still unwilling to move.
“Breathe,” said Morgen. “Get up. Go clean yourself off. Make sure your uniform is always perfect. Feed yourself. Take care of your needs.”
The scout scampered away, racing to obey her god. She had no choice.
I note you left her enslaved, said Nacht.
“She’s better this way,” said Morgen. “I have to be more careful,” he admitted, glancing at his Reflection, eyes narrowing. “I’m not Erbrechen.”
Nacht shrugged. You’ve been standing here talking to yourself, surrounded by your priests, and no one said anything.
“They know better than to interrupt,” said Morgen.
They expect such behaviour from their insane god. Nacht glanced around, taking in the surrounding priests. I wonder what they’re thinking. Do you think they worry about this mad god they created?
Morgen swallowed, replaying his side of the conversation and wondering how insane it might sound from the outside. He eyed the nearest priest, a tall man who stood ramrod straight, his Geborene robes perfect except for a stain of mud around the hem. Why couldn’t they stay clean? Was it so rutting difficult? Morgen crushed the man’s will with a thought. It was so easy, he didn’t even need to speak.
“You,” he said to the tall priest. “Go change into clean robes.”
Don’t make the same mistake you made with the scout, said Nacht.
“I have to do everything myself, don’t I.” Morgen breathed deep and let out in a long sigh. “Take care of yourself,” he commanded the tall priest. “Bathe regularly. If your clothes are dirty, change into something clean and wash the old ones. Eat when you are hungry and don’t rutting forget to breathe.” He turned on his Reflection and snarled, “Good enough?”
For now.
The priest hurried away and Morgen watched. “This really is a better way.”
They’re flawed, said Nacht. Terribly flawed.
And they were. “My priests are so flawed they are improved by giving themselves to me even though I, myself, am…not quite perfect.”
They aren’t giving themselves to you, Nacht pointed out.
“In worshipping me they are giving themselves.” They made me what I am. This is what they want. Morgen turned to another priest, a squat man with a face scarred by childhood acne. “You,” he said, and the priest fell to his knees, prostrating himself before his god. “Would you give yourself to me?”
“Yes, my god.”
“Utterly and completely and without question?”
“Yes,” he answered with only the slightest hesitation.
“Do you want to be perfect?”
“Yes,” the priest whispered, tears falling from his eyes.
“Then stand. See?” said Morgen, turning back to his Reflection as the man clambered to his feet. He snuffed the priest’s will, bent all the man was to his purpose. “You are no longer scarred.” The man’s face was smooth, unblemished. “You aren’t fat and squat.” The priest stood straighter, his gut fading away. “You are happy.” The tall, handsome man smiled, showing perfect teeth. He looked ten years younger. “Are you happy?” asked Morgen, and his priest grinned. “You will care for yourself. You will bathe and eat as needed. And keep your clothes clean.”
When did it become so easy to change people? Perhaps he only needed to make the decision.
It’s time, said Nacht.
“Time for what?”
They must worship you as a perfect god.
His Reflection was right. “You will worship me as your perfect god. You will know I am without flaw.”
The priest stared at him, eyes round with wonder and awe, and Morgen basked in the attention. The man’s absolute devotion warmed him like standing in the sun.
It’s time, Nacht said again, and Morgen knew what he meant.
“Who else wants to be perfect?” he asked the nearest priests. “Who else wants to be happy?”
As one their hands rose.
Morgen took away their fears and doubts and insecurities and filled them with his need for worship. He made them perfect and they, in turn, worshipped him as the perfect god. He shaped their beliefs and their faith would shape him.
Belief defines reality, said Nacht, mirroring Morgen’s thoughts.
They changed, melted and reformed. He made them clean and strong and perfect. No scars, no dirty robes. No weak chins or pot bellies. Every little flaw that bothered him, he fixed. They glowed, stronger, taller, and so clearly better than the rest of his army. Their perfect faith sang through his blood.
Look, said Nacht. Look at the stain.
Morgen’s own robes were whiter, brighter. The smudge he was unable to change faded. More. He needed more. They would make him perfect, as he predicted.
Morgen faced his army. He lifted his hands, rising off the ground to float where all could see him. Reality bent to his will. Fifteen thousand pairs of eyes locked on him.
“Who wants to be perfect?” he screamed. “Who wants to be happy?”
Fifteen thousand hands rose to the sky.
Morgen took them. He gutted fifteen thousand men and women of will and poured himself into the emptiness. He became their world. With a word, they’d stop eating or hold their breath until they collapsed. With a thought, he could command them to fall on their swords and not one would question or hesitate.
They were perfect.
It took time, conscripting the will of fifteen thousand soldiers, carefully giving them the commands that would keep them happy and healthy and pure. When Morgen was finished he surveyed his new army. They stood in ranks more perfect than anything General Misserfolg could have achieved in a thousand years. No hint of filth stained them. No one moved or fidgeted. No one coughed or farted or whispered inanities to his neighbour.
They finally looked like his toy soldiers.
“I should have done this ages ago,” Morgen said to Nacht. “The horror of Unbrauchbar never would have happened.”
You had to see that to get here, said Nacht and Morgen waved the words away.
“I am their centre. Their everything.” He felt bigger, more powerful than ever before. The perfect faith of fifteen thousand true worshippers weighed more than the flawed belief of all Selbsthass. It was intoxicating. “I had no idea,” he said. “They must have harboured so many doubts. Now…” Now that he’d taken their misgivings—now that he’d cleansed them of scepticism—they worshipped him as a perfect god. Their faith was flawless, unsullied. And faith defined reality.
“This is what it feels like to be a god. A real god
.” This was what it always should have felt like. He could do anything and could do no wrong.
Fifteen thousand tall and beautiful men and women stood before him, each and every one smiling contentedly.
“My perfect army.”
And when we return to Selbsthass? Nacht asked.
A shiver of pleasure ran through the Geborene god. “Every single man, woman, and child will worship me as their perfect god.” They would be his, the entire city-state. He showed Nacht his own smug grin. “And you said I wouldn’t reach the capital. Gottlos will fall to me. Nothing can stand in my way, no Geisteskranken or Ascended can match me. I shall make all the population of Gottlos mine before I return to Selbsthass. You have failed.”
His Reflection didn’t look worried. It’s time, he repeated.
“For what?”
I’ve stalled us long enough. Erdbehüter, Ungeist, and Drache are dead. It’s time to go to the farmhouse. Nacht pointed south. Just over that hill.
Morgen examined his Reflection. The bastard looked too smug. Have I missed something? Had Nacht somehow won? He stood surrounded by his perfect army, worshipped as a perfect god. How could Nacht think he won? “What’s at the farmhouse?”
Bedeckt, answered his Reflection.
“Stay here,” Morgen told his army and walked south. No one followed. No one moved or shuffled. Fifteen thousand men and women, and Morgen heard no sound from them beyond whispers of breath. Fifteen thousand men and women breathed in perfect unison.
Morgen crossed fields of dead, corpses uncountable. Thousands of Gottlos soldiers had been flattened by Erdbehüter’s rocks or torn open as Ungeist freed their inner demons. Among these were hundreds of dead not dressed in the Gottlos livery. Where they came from Morgen had no idea. Nothing moved and no wounded moaned or screamed their agonies. All was silent.
The scene of horror and destruction broke his heart. None of this needed to happen. No one had to die. He could have taken the Gottlos army with a few words. They’d have followed him, become his. What a waste.
The land was devastated by delusions and he made it perfect as he passed. Before him, mud and ruin. Perfection, healthy verdant hills, followed in his footsteps. The dead he buried under flawless fields of grass. Boulders spoiling the smooth flow of the land, he shoved back under the earth. Soon all Gottlos would be like Selbsthass. Mud and rock served no purpose, did no one any good. How the city-state managed to feed itself with such poor farmlands, he couldn’t imagine. He’d remake the land, shape it as he had Selbsthass. With a thought, he cleared the clouds from the sky and the sun shone warm. Someday soon, when enough believed in him, he would fix the world on a much larger scale. The days would be comfortably warm, always. No snow or cold would spoil an eternal growing season. He’d time the rains so they fell at night when everyone was in bed.
The Mirror's Truth: A Novel of Manifest Delusions Page 42
